Telling jokes is a serious business
THERE’S no doubt that a joke well told is a thing of beauty, a rare gift bestowed on the fortunate few. It is also the case that the Irish are masters at the art, with the perfect jest or quip delivered in a complex arrangement of mimicry, timing and gesture to maximise the impact on its intended audience. And all of it accomplished with an apparently spontaneous, casual air, while out of sight, like the proverbial graceful swan, are the myriad hidden cogs, furiously at work.
During my J1 bartending days, I worked with a cranky counter veteran called Buddy McGirney, who imparted one nugget worth keeping: “Make ‘em smile, kid, that’s the secret. And it’ll get you 50pc more in your tip cup.”
It’s been a while now since I mixed a Brandy Alexander for an Upper East Side trustafarian or a Bullshot for a thirsty Wall Streeter, but the advice, plus the metaphorical tip cup, has long accompanied me on life’s journey. And even though my comedy shtick is never going to give Jerry Seinfeld or Chris Rock uneasy slumbers, the knack of turning a tall tale into a belly-rolling punchline has surely helped open a few doors along the road.
Like the title of funny man Steve Martin’s 1979 album, ‘Comedy Is Not Pretty’, the business of getting a giggle is no laughing matter when it comes to gaining an edge in the commercial marketplace. I know of one advertising company who hired a professional comedian to coach their sales staff in the art of timing, delivery and setting up a good punch-line. “The skills involved in effective joke-telling are all based around confidence, it’s selling by another name,” the managing director explained. How true.
Like gelignite, however, humour is a commodity requiring infinite care in its handling – cleverly used and you’ll blow them away, but drop the slightest stitch and the blast is on you, my son.
When UK television channel Dave picked the 10 best jokes at the 2017 Edinburgh Festival Fringe, Alexei Sayle was tops with: “I’ve given up asking rhetorical questions. What’s the point?” But our own Ed Byrne was close behind with: “I have two boys, five and six. We’re no good at naming things in our house.”
Observational humour devoid of curse or blaspheme is what rocks my boat, and John B Keane had the gift in spades, with gems like this pious put-down: “Your theological rantings have the same effect on the people of Listowel as the droppings of an underfed blackbird on the water levels of the Grand Coulee Dam.”
In fact, telling a joke is a minor metaphor for life itself – you stand there naked, modesty exposed to the world, and jump off the diving board with your heart in your mouth. A blast.